• Poetry Snark
  • Wednesday, July 27, 2005


    Ah friends betimes in my silence I wondered at these posts like a lazy Oriental wonders at the slow music of the bamboo rushes in the quivering gust. Then, I often refocused my thoughts on the peculiar hue of green found metallic & shimmering on the fly's wing, too.

    Friday, July 08, 2005


    I am a whale's tooth

    Wednesday, July 06, 2005

    The Infinite Regress of the Critic

    Ah friends, yes, yes, it seems the morning is veritably dehiscing with beauty like an orange over-ripe with its acrid juices, yes, yes, like a sow on the verge of birthing friends, only, the sky seems wont to birth merely sunshine, a few cirrus clouds, & a breeze that lightly intermingles with the steam from my white jasmine pear tea like the fingers of hesitant & inchoate lovers. & the smell of fish from the bay, friends, that briny stench of hubris foregone, yes, a lovely tale it tells but for the anosmics, bless them all (for what blessing in the olfactory system!). This morning I choose crticisism of criticism, friends, as an in to my endeavoring, as a means of implicating myself in the struggle. As you may well know, my studies are numerous, my works comprehensive, my critical acumen unchallenged, & yet, there seems a fundamental flaw in the trends of the modern critic. What has been referred to as "editor's syndrome" seems to flush over the profession like a black tunic over a visigoth, yes, only more sardonic in its composition; namely because a tunic, to the extent of my knowledge, is incapable of being sardonic (though the two words may well flush out a sestina one day). At any rate, friends, the critical eye turns with malice & indignation to works which represent easy targets, flawed projects, or unrepentently idiotic explosions of ego smeared across a page, as I'm sure we all have seen. Now, indeed, friends, there is relative ease in tightening one's aperture & zeroing in on incompetence as an entymologist might upon a rare specimen of grasshopper. which is to say, by making that specimen as remote, as distant & as far from yourself as possible. But recognize, friends, the unity, the conectivity of all things, & suddenly, the scientist becomes the study. Just so, the critic must always remain the criticized, lest accountablity & savage politics intervene where scholastic integrity once lived. Here, I say that yes, I may indeed find my reaction to Fence so visceral as to lead me to bang my head against a wall repeatedly, yes, but friends, I must also effect the changes I wish the poems read effected. Namely, if the ego, if the horrid indolence, the lazy gesture, the pomposity, the trite nod to G. Stein, the insistence on surreal manufacturing irritates me, friends, I must redouble my vision & scan my reaction for the presence of that which set it off. Namely, my indignation at horrid verse offends my ego, which, in turn, posits me on the cusp of verbal condescension, where, of a sudden, I am guilty of the very crime I condemn. Thus the critic must remain in the liminal space betwixt two mirrors, friends, the words bouncing back & forth, the vitriol, the praise, the flat assessments, all of it locked up in the chamber of our being. The speaking of a criticism, the expurgation from the physical body, means very little, though much has been said in praise of its cathartic quality. Our words carry the stench of ourselves, friends, & thus, while there be exceptions to every rule, namely in the form of the obstinately if not at all reasonably persistent school of idiocy that governs our modern discourse, perhaps we should consider the weight of our criticisms in the light of their reflections & refractions. What are we saying of ourselves? Well, well, I digress where I mean to regress. On to the champagne!

    Saturday, July 02, 2005

    Thus returned

    Yes, yes, friends, my errant focus has been a matter of some distraction in such timely fashions! But returned I am, indeed, friends, to the topics of the day. A generous portion of my inclination of late seems to want to respond to so many of the issues that float to the surface at poetrysnark.blogspot.com, while the other pull, of course, is the open & honorable discussion of my climes of present & yore, yes, yes, & what they represent in the broader cosmology of poetics, being & that now Lycean princess, or so it would seem, Beauty. Yes, yes, friends, I make no scruples about it, for the pursuit of such a lady as she seems righteous, noble & valiant, even in its utter futility. Recall rilke friends, "beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror." & no, dear readers, I seek not a life perpetuated in Wes Craven-like deathscapes with eery crescendoes echoing in semi-dark farm towns, no, no, but I seek an apex, a crest, an acme, a distilled moment in which the ineluctable is secondary & the form is primary. Time, yes, time will sweep our ashes to the rivers, friends, & that Styxian boatman shall take our token with neither smile nor frown, & truth be told once we are bound to Sheol, we are bound, alas, to our imminent forgetting. Thus my friends, it is Beauty that I seek to woo, Beauty that I chase in Apolline blindness, & be she Daphne or Jezebel, her coattails stir behind her like the rhetoric of T. Swift come bellowing out of his anus, only more beautifully, more delicately, less advertantly & more purely. I see two screens in my mind, dear friends, one upon which I see her, yes, yes, pure Beauty drawing water of a well, & in the other I hear the buzzing rancor that attends to the dubious, the idiotic & the tritely self-aggrandizing, & I see in both some merit, friends. A day awakens anew each blessed dawn, & each dawn I choose, Beauty or ballast. Well, friends, where is the world whole like once it seemed, in those remote years decades ago, our life a cicada song, a nightingale's sonorous madrigal? Where now those familiar enchantments, those moments of awe, those acmes I seek & find so devastatingly absent? Where, friends, is the world whole again?

    Friday, July 01, 2005

    Forgive Me

    Ah dear friends, what is there to do but beg of your forgiveness for yesterday's lysurgic foray? Well, well, a man of my age must proactively encourage the mind's ongoingness, waging against the trumpet of time, dear friends. A swan, I am told, has an average lifespan of 102 years, during which time said bird may float upon the water, take brief flights, catch & consume innumerable small fish & spend the remaining time idly watching the world turn, friends. I am no swan, though advanced in years I may be, I seek the current of the day, friends, yes, yes, & a tab or two, well, a gentleman like myself finds the hearty benefits. That said, I am rather tired this morning as a result of my escapades. I awakened slightly damp from what I believe to be a swift dip in the harbor, wherein, on the calm sheen of the water I recall the stars reflected in perfect symmetry, & like a chthonic or rather aqueous Thales, I dipped my mane in the stars dear friends, thinking the water the very ether of the cosmos. No visions awaited me belowsurface, but the stench of yellowfish, the slow viscous grime of oil & the confouonding shouts of the boardwalk security men. In their pursuit of me I swore them demons come for my eternal soul & thus found my feet flighty & swift. Over my shoulder, yes, yes, as they faded, I thought I saw their bodies merge into one, a silhouetted Chang & Eng, a Platonic starperson, a...well, you understand. Then I tripped, my Nike stuck momentarily in the groove of an empty Chevrolet hubcap left in a vacant lot. The collision with the verdant groundcover & the slight poof of dirt that clouded upon my face brought me to my senses. I walked back to my flat, friends, soiled, damp, my quest come to its empty-handed close. A spot of Irish breakfast & a quick glance over some Blake & here I am, hours later, my head the busted filament of a lightbulb frayed to darkness.